


Introductions

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-24
Updated: 2006-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      stocking-filler<p>Written for jamjar</p>
    </blockquote>





	Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> stocking-filler
> 
> Written for jamjar

 

 

**introductions**

1.

"Stuart Alan Jones," the new bloke said _again_ , trying to pitch his voice a bit deeper than it really wanted to go. Christ. Apparently he'd forgotten that he'd tried this on Vince already, like he had on everyone else in the school. Vince nodded dutifully - very clever, you have three names - and tried to swivel to face the front again.

It was the first day back to school and the English teacher, Mr Matthews, was Head of Year as well. Everyone knew that he picked out Troublemakers on the first day of term and it didn't matter if the sun shone out of your arse for the rest of the year - once he decided you were trouble, that was it. Vince really didn't want to be trouble.

"Oi," the new bloke, kicking at the back of his chair. Not even trying to whisper. "I'm _talking_ to you."

Vince gritted his teeth and turned around carefully. Short. Irish. Annoying half-smile, like he knew everything you didn't know and wished you did.

"What?" Vince said, and that little smile widened out, like he'd won some game Vince hadn't known they were even playing.

He leaned in close, much closer than people normally did.

"I'm _Stuart_ ," he said, very slowly. Vince could smell his soap. "What's _your_ name?"

There should have been a clever or a sarcastic answer to that, but Vince couldn't think of one and Mr Matthews was starting to frown in their general direction.

"It's Vince," he said quickly, and then turned to face the front again before Mr Matthews could start, got out his pens. He could feel the new bloke - Stuart Alan Jones, Stuart - staring at the back of his neck for the rest of the lesson.

*

"He's a poof," John Cartwright said, and Vince ducked his head a little lower, lacing up his shoes, and not looking over to their corner of the football field. There wasn't anyone John Cartwright hadn't called a poof at one time or the other anyway. Stuart Jones was just new, and Irish, and a bit skinny and,

"He _says_ he's a poof."

Vince's hands stumbled abruptly over the laces and he had to force them to move again. His heart was pounding stupidly. It wasn't like - he didn't even know that he _was_. Or anything. And anyway,

"Vince, you coming or what?"

"Yeah," he said, jogging over to them, not looking at where John's shirt had ridden up a little to show flat muscle, a little hair. A fine misting drizzle had set in, merging everything into the same miserable grey, so he only realised that the narrow-shouldered boy running full-tilt down the field, with an aggressive speed that didn't have much to do with the game, was Stuart Alan Jones, _poof,_ says he's a poof, when he ran straight into him.

"Sorry," he said, breathless, automatic, still clutching the boy's arm and pressed up against him, and then he saw and he felt himself flush to the roots of his hair, hot against the chill of the rain.

"Sorry," he said again, and he was starting to pull away, stumbling a little, when John Cartwright shouldered furiously past him, shoved Stuart backwards, away from him.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" shit, "You dirty fucking poofter."

"It's - he didn't," Vince stammered, but Stuart was already shoving back, his eyes glittering dark and strange in the grey air, foreign, and suddenly there was blood in John Cartwright's teeth and Mr Peterson was there, furiously dragging them apart.

"What the bloody hell is going on here, then? Cartwright?"

"Sir, he -"

"I ran into him," Vince interrupted. "I wasn't looking and I ran into him, Stuart, and" he swallowed painfully against the hard beat of his pulse in his throat, "Cartwright called him a poofter and hit him. Sir."

"I never, sir," Cartwright said, after a moment of dead silence, nothing but the hushing sound of the rain. His lower lip was bloody; he brought his hand up to it and then presented it to show the blood. "Never touched him. He just went after me," he looked at Vince and his face hardened maliciously, shit, shit, "for talking to his boyfriend."

 _I'm not_ , Vince thought stupidly. He had the sense not to say it. Everyone knew it wasn't true, after all. It was just a stupid insult.

"He's not my boyfriend," Stuart said, drawing the word out lazily, just as Mr Peterson was starting to turn his frown away, and then he gave John Cartwright a long deliberate once-over that brought the blood to Vince's face. "And if I _went after_ you," he said, and grinned, appallingly wide, Vince's pulse starting to hammer madly, "I'd _have_ you, mate."

*

"Vince, right?" he said later, as they were trailing out of the changing rooms, and Vince glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah," he said.

School let out in five minutes time and John Cartwright had looked bloody murder before his friends had dragged him away. They'd have to run home if they wanted to get there in one piece. He could feel a messy knot of panic in his stomach at the thought, but Stuart looked jaunty and cheerful, glittery with rain. He grinned knowingly over at Vince and held out his hand, deliberately limp at the wrist.

"It's-"

"Stuart Alan Jones, I know," Vince said, feeling a little burst of that stupid glittery jauntiness himself, and Stuart flashed him a startled-looking grin, just as they got to the school gates where Cartwright and his friends were waiting for them, just before they started to run.

2.

Stuart took to coming around after that, all the time. He was in with Hazel, easy as easy, for all that he slouched and swore and got Vince drunk and taught him to swear: as far as Vince could see, she approved of all that.

He came around with magazines and videos and cigarettes and impossible frightening brilliant stories about back bathrooms in clubs, and alleyways, and tiny student flats on the corner of Canal Street; he said _cock_ and _fuck_ and _arse_ and _blow-job_ and grinned approvingly at Vince when he stuttered and blushed and tried to say the words too. Hazel approved of that too.

He didn't know if she would approve of this, though, the _Radio Times_ dropped forgotten between them, and Stuart leaning over him with the strangest expression, intent and curious, like he'd never seen Vince before. His hand on Vince's cock was almost absent, easily expert, but his eyes were locked on Vince's face, the laughter in them fading away, and Vince could feel the heat rise painfully to his hairline, the tips of his ears burning, and he had to clench his jaw tight to hold back the _Stuart, Stuart, Stuart_ some stupid voice in his head wanted him to say. He had to look away, reaching to fumble for the zipper on Stuart's jeans, thank god he was hard too, but fuck, fuck, because Vince's hands were shaking.

" _Vince_ ," Stuart said, sounding honestly surprised, his cock hard and incredible and terrifying in Vince's clumsy hand, and it was just then that he heard Hazel's key in the lock, and leapt gratefully away, stammering and dragging his trousers up and not looking at Stuart's face till he was well over the other side of the room. Stuart was watching him, something odd and calculating in his expression.

"It's all right," he said slowly, strangely quiet, as Hazel's voice echoed up the stairs, and then he smiled, wide and flashy and false, rolling off the bed to the other side of the room, and said it again, louder.

"It's all _right_ , Vince, you sad bastard, will you stop panicking? Your mother _knows_ that you wank, all right?"

"Fuck off," Vince said gratefully, feeling some of the jittering panic recede to something more manageable, a duller ache, and Stuart laughed and ran down the stairs to meet Hazel, his fingers lightly, carefully, brushing over Vince's shoulder as he left.

3.

There were cheaper hotels in London, ones closer to Heathrow, but Stuart wanted to spend and Vince was still too dazed, too happy, too _something_ , to care. He'd been dizzily light-headed, everything hilarious, _bang, bang, bang_ , all the way up the M4, with Stuart laughing fiercely in his ear, and when they checked into the big luxurious hotel, walked into a room with a huge TV and an absurd white bed, he was still laughing actually against Stuart's mouth, when Stuart shoved him against the door and licked his lower lip. Then he ran abruptly out of air.

"Stuart," he said carefully, trying to ignore the surreal feeling of his lips moving against Stuart's when he talked. Somewhere along the way Stuart had grabbed his hips as well, and he shifted awkwardly, watching Stuart's expression change from laughter and hunger to irritation and, here we go, contempt. _Sad bastard_.

" _Vince_ ," he said deliberately, sarcastically, stroking his hands up Vince's sides, and Vince didn't move and didn't move until he backed away and sat down on the bed, something strange and tired in his expression.

"Coward," he said quietly and Vince swallowed hard, the euphoria from the morning starting to drain away. It might as well have been the same hotel room. New planet, same as the old one. _Coward. Sad bastard. Stuart Alan Jones, and Vince Tyler, the Stuart and Vince show_. Well, fuck that.

"Bang," he said, aloud, and Stuart's head jerked up so fast it might have been a real gunshot, eyes narrowing, and then Vince was on his knees with Stuart staring down at him.

"Come on, then," he said, pushing his hands up over Stuart's calves, stroking over his thighs, the same giddy feeling rushing through him like blood. _Press the red button. Dematerialise_. "Haven't got all day."

He was laughing a little, he knew, and absolutely terrified, there with Stuart blinking down at him, _on his knees_ for Stuart after all these years, years of keeping his precarious balance, of just about keeping his head. Stuart's hand was curving slow and possessive around the back of his head, tilting his face up so that he had to look him in the eye.

"Look at you," he said, slow and wondering, scraping his thumb over Vince's mouth. He looked a little like he was trying to sneer, that sexy challenging look, but his expression was too stunned surprised to really pull it off. "Scared out of your mind."

"Yeah," Vince said, ignoring the painful pounding of his heart, and then he got Stuart's zipper down, hands decently steady, and managed to give him some kind of blow job there in the white-lit hotel room, with the carpeting scuffing his knees and Stuart's hands running restlessly over his scalp, pressing lightly down on the nape of his neck.

It wasn't particularly good. He kept losing track, mind on an endless loop of _oh my God, it's Stuart_ , focusing too helplessly on the salt and heat in his mouth to really do anything about it, and he didn't get a chance to try anything much anyway before Stuart made a harsh gasping sound and came in his mouth, slumping back on the bed. But he'd done it though. Stuart had come, and that was sex with Stuart done and out of the way. There.

"There," he said, trying and failing not to hear his voice shake, wiping his mouth. "Finally got that shag."

He was still on his knees when Stuart half sat up to look at him, flushed with the sex but eyes unreadable; he got up quickly, awkwardly, hearing his knees click embarrassingly. Well, he wasn't in his twenties any more.

"Best get some sleep," he said and Stuart smiled faintly.

"Long day tomorrow," he parroted, and then he grabbed Vince's wrist and dragged him down on the bed on top of him, laughing giddily. Vince had to touch that smile, just once, now that he suddenly could, and then somehow he was kissing him, sixteen years of tamped-down hunger in the stutter-slide of his lips against Stuart's, the greedy push of his tongue. Stuart kissed him back easily, knowingly, as Vince had always known he would, and when his hand ran down Vince's body, wrapped smoothly around Vince's cock, Vince moaned and came at the first touch, as he'd always been afraid he would.

"Fuck," he said, still shuddering, and was opening his mouth to apologise when he caught that strange lit expression of Stuart's, the way Stuart was looking at him, triumphant and amazed and new.

"Vince," he said, and laughed a little, breathless and small. "Oh my _God_ , Vince," and Vince laughed shakily back.

"Fuck off," he said, and he let Stuart reach up to kiss him this time, slow and hungry and fantastic, and bang, bang, bang, that was their first day on the new planet.

 


End file.
